I pull my bag over my shoulder and slink out of the studio, head down, eyes to my feet, earbuds in to drown out the sound of others enjoying themselves. The ache is creeping through my insides, spreading through my body like a disease. Though it drags me down, it still gives me some strange measure of comfort. Holding onto an ache is better than feeling nothing at all.
Chapter Five
Dashiell
I find Mom in the line after what seems like an hour of searching. Everyone looks the same, bundled up against the wind, but I’ve got my eyes peeled for our red suitcase. When I finally spot her, the suitcase is gone. Her face looks so defeated, I pretend not to notice.
“Dashiell, how was school?” She greets me with a tight hug.
“It was awesome, Mom. I may have scored us a job,” I tell her excitedly.
I’m so hungry for dinner, my stomach is folding in on itself. With all of this dancing, I could eat double the calories I’m currently putting down.
“A job? What kind of job?” Mom looks frazzled and skeptical.
She doesn’t want me to worry about our financial situation. But if she thinks I can live like this and only concentrate on school, she’s dreaming even more than I am.
“I hope the potatoes are real and have gravy,” the skinny, rat-like man says behind us in line. “Hey, hey, no cuts. This kid wasn’t here a minute ago. I’m not eating cold meatloaf.”
He looks like he could be an addict. Or maybe he’s had a hard life. I step to the side and motion for him to go ahead and pass in front of us. Confrontation isn’t worth it out here. We don’t want to get stabbed in our sleep. I’ll eat my food completely congealed at this point if it means our safety.
“I went out to the suburbs to apply for a cleaning job. I hid my suitcase in a parking lot of a bank by the dumpster. By the time I got back, someone had taken it. I’m so sorry, Dash,” my mom says. Tears spring to her eyes and she looks hopeless. Worse than I’ve ever seen her.
“It’s okay, Mom. Don’t cry. We don’t need any stuff. We’ve got our meals here and our beds. They bring in clothes on Thursday, and we can grab some stuff from the piles then. And I’ve still got my scholarship. We’ll be fine,” I reassure her, rubbing her back. I swallow down the lump in my throat and try not to join her tears.
I rub her back through her thick coat and wonder how long we can make it out here without help. Mom’s still got bruises from the fight, but beyond that, she doesn’t look good. Her skin is dry and her cheeks look weathered. This life wears on you and it shows on your face, on your hands, and under your nails. I look down at mine and flex them in the cold.
“Next!” the attendant yells.
He’s checking people in for the night. We register and get our scratchy army blankets and a thin bar of soap. After laying them down on our assigned cots, we get into another line for tonight’s food.
As we wait for our slop, I wonder what Tayla’s eating. Her family has all the money in the world, yet they starve her. I hope wherever she is, she’s got enough to fill her stomach. I saw how hard she pushed it in class today, and the stress on your body is no joke.
Mom and I sit on our cots, paper plates balanced on our laps. I eat the instant potatoes and appreciate every bite. Growing up, I found the school gym comforting, a special sort of getaway from the desk and sitting still all day. I never imagined I’d be stuck sleeping in a derelict gymnasium that was too cold for comfort and too crowded for anything more than sleeping or watching the minutes pass on the clock until school starts again. Haverton has become my refuge, my safe place to forget about the stress of life.
“So it’s a telemarketing job?” Mom asks.
“Something like that. For a fundraiser put on by the school. My friend’s mother is on the board, and she needs people to call for pledges.”
“Imagine us, asking people to donate money when we can’t spare a cent ourselves.”
“Step by step, Mom. Are you gonna eat that last piece of bread?”
Two days later, Mom and I have gotten permission to use a landline by the bathrooms. We find two folding chairs and set up our office. They’ve given us a few hours, and I’m nervous about how many calls we can make within the timeframe.
Natayla slipped me a folder with the numbers and family names highlighted in yellow. The script is printed out for us, and we can read it right off the page. Sam set this up with extra care to make it as easy as possible for us.